Welsh journalist and broadcaster Jaci Stephen takes a sideways look at life in the USA, with all the fun, strangeness and, along the way, heartache, that her nomadic, transatlantic existence brings her.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

As Britain prepares for “the worst storm since 1987”,
which will apparently hit southern England and south Wales on Monday, I have
been thinking back to that memorable day 26 years ago.

I had been in London for three years, signing on the
dole and living a miserable existence gate-crashing events just to stuff my
handbag full of the bread-crumbed chicken legs from the buffet, as I had hardly
any money for food.

I used to arrive at events with a virtually empty bag
in order to stock up for the week, and I also had a duffel coat in which I
could pack a bottle of wine in each arm (apologies to the Reform Club
cloakroom, by the way, when I forgot about the cache and put my arms in the
sleeves, only to smash both bottles over the floor).

At this point in time, I had been TV critic of the
London Evening Standard for eight months. I wrote five columns a week, watching
TV all day, writing the column at midnight (by hand – I couldn’t afford a
computer) and getting up at 7am to file to the copy-takers over the phone.
Then, the sub-editor would ring me at eight to go over any corrections. I did
that for nearly four years and it was gruelling – but great training.

On the day of the storm, my phone was not working. The
TV was reporting the weather, but it never crossed my mind that every other
journalist in London was in the same position as me, unable to file their copy
(or, indeed, every employee whose phone line had been cut off).

I was hysterical. I was crying. I had been brought up
with an incredibly strong work ethic: if you are late, behind with your work et
al, it is NEVER, EVER your employer’s fault; you alone are responsible for
getting your work in on time. My dad drummed that in to me from the year dot,
and I have never missed a deadline as a result.

So, with copy in hand, I set off from my Belsize Park
bedsit at 7am to walk to the Fleet Street offices – over four miles: in a
storm, with wind, rain, branches falling on my head, fighting against the
current. I was in fear of losing my job, of not fulfilling my duties; it never
once occurred to me, I swear, that everyone else might be in the same position;
I had a job to do, I was being paid to do it, and no natural disaster was going
to get in the way of my doing that.

I wonder how many people – of any age – are instilled
with that same work ethic today. I know many wonderful young people who do a
great deal for their community and go unnoticed for their efforts; but I also
know a great many others who, because of the lure of reality TV, are after the
quick fix. They want to be famous, and they want to be famous now.

To them, fame is everything they think they want:
lights, camera, action. Premieres, red carpets, the attentions of famous
boy/girlfriends, money, fast cars, TV shows. Fast Fame has replaced Fast Food
as the easiest – and, seemingly, cheapest – route to satisfaction, on the part
of participants and consumers.

I receive many letters from young people asking me how
to get into journalism and, in particular, how to become a TV critic, which is
my area of expertise. In over 25 years, I can count on one hand the number who
have even managed to spell my name correctly when they write. My view is: if
you can’t even copy my name out of a newspaper, why do you think I would take
the time to tell you how to take my job?

Many of the people in my working environment when we
were all relatively young 30 years ago are at the top of their tree today, and
many of us are still on the top branches. Boris Johnson is Mayor of London;
Piers Morgan is anchor on CNN (I could name many others, but you know who they
are). What they all have in common is not just fierce ambition, but an ability
to harness that ambition and find increasingly new routes (because, in a
changing society, you have to have adaptability) to see it realised.

There will always be storms. And wind. And rain. Literal
and metaphorical. The survivors are still the ones who don their Wellingtons
and brave the elements.

I am proud to be of the generation that learned – and continues
to do – just that.